


Alfred

by Ranranbolly



Category: Tanz der Vampire - Steinman/Kunze
Genre: Bloodlust, Corruption, Daylight, F/M, M/M, Snow, Vampires, blood-drinking, burrowing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7507636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranranbolly/pseuds/Ranranbolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his death, Alfred becomes so much more and so much less than what he was. While Sarah still yearns for freedom and the outside world, Alfred is unsure if he has the same desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read another great story on here that made me really want to delve into the idea of a 'darker side' of Alfred after he was turned. Also, I have always been a fan of the Steve Barton and Aris Sas cast, so that's who I imagined in this one.

As a boy, which Alfred could arguably still be called, he’d thought death a terrifying monster lurking at the bedsides of the old and under the hooves of horses, hidden in a piece of tough meat left unchewed, or beneath the wavering strength of a creaky step. He certainly hadn’t expected to meet his own at the hands of a girl, the hands of the girl he loved.

The professor had led him down a path in life after school which he had not expected himself to follow. Indeed, if his lectures hadn’t been so persuasive, perhaps Alfred may have remained in his seat to continue to learn the traditional style of doctoring. But when the professor proposed a nightmare that none would listen to, Alfred had blindly followed him from Heidlberg. A man with so much conviction, or as many years behind him, simply could _not_ be wrong! Mad men talked to walls. Mad men ate their hair. Mad men thought themselves lumbering bears or incarnations of various angels and sometimes even god himself. Alfred had met one such man as a student, and in the face of Abronsius he saw none of this insanity others seemed to think he was so rife with. 

Death had found the professor many times, and Alfred had fished the old man from it’s clutches, cutting the cord behind the hook just in time. But, unfortunately, the old man was not present to do the same for him. Oh, sure, he was _there,_ but he was not truly. His mind and words had wondered to speeches of a new world in which the creatures that stood at death’s side to spread his peculiar curse throughout the land were no more, or that he himself had indeed finally conquered his lifelong foe.

Professor Abronsius, speaking in that same impassioned tone which Alfred had come to know so well, and respected as his former student and assistant...stood merely a few dozen feet away while Sarah, the girl he’d thought to save and love, drank deeply from his neck.

A pool of rich red fabric spread about them in the snow, red as the spots of blood that slipped around her lips. Hazily, he stared up into her perfectly pale face, and then at the skirt surrounding him, which seemed to blind against the pure white of the snow.

“S-sa-sa-” he stammered, mouth gasping like a fish on land, while the professor continued to mumble and ramble to himself even as he trudged forward in the harsh landscape.

Alfred’s hand fluttered in the air, straining against the biting wind and his fading strength, to caress Sarah’s perfect cheek, to touch what he’d so long to lovingly caress from the first instant he’d seen her reclining in that bath at the inn. Each pump of his heart drained him further, each pull of her silken lips ruthlessly tore deeper into his neck, and Sarah made no move to grasp at his hand even in sympathy.

The light in Alfred’s eyes, the light that was the reflection of his youth, his innocence, and his love, faded into the glaze of death. Yet, he continued to feel. The first emotion was rage, rampaging through him, destroying and shredding every single sweet or simple thought, twisting them and devouring. Then, that black rage consumed his soul. It turned his simple desire to live into hunger, his fear of dying into comfort, and though he fought to hold onto it with everything he had, his love too left with his humanity. What remained was something he had never felt before, and something he was not sure any human man _could._

She pushed him down into the snow and wiped at her chin with delicate fingers, eyes trained on the old man as he trudged forward through the continuously falling white, and Alfred mindlessly brushed at his neck.

“What is this?” He asked, overcome by the desperate need to devour it, to taste, to savor. He _knew_ it was blood. Knew it was his. Still, had it ever smelled so good? He could hardly believe it.

“Blood, lover,” Sarah replied eagerly, leaning closer to him and hissing into his ear with a menacing whisper, “lick it up!”

Drawing his hand close, he sniffed and lapped at the blood, licked, sucked, and nibbled at his bare hand until it was pristine, still yet wanting more even as Sarah knelt down for another bite. She drank all that was left, and while a part of him knew it should not be possible to continue to move and blink and see and live, his body stubbornly defied that clinical line of thought. With her final gentle pull against his neck, so too did she take with her any shred of curiosity left.

Alfred was no longer a boy, and not yet a man. He was something else. With a calculating look, he watched Abronsius disappear in the distance, no doubt to be made an icicle soon enough if he didn’t follow to keep the damnable old man safe. Frankly, he didn’t much care anymore as Sarah pulled him to his feet. Nor, he realized, did the cold seem to bite anymore. In fact, it felt quite soothing, plucking at his skin while the wind brushed his curled chestnut bangs back from his face.

“We’ll have to be quick,” Sarah told him darkly, and Alfred turned towards her with fresh eyes. His mistress, who he knew in his core he must always serve. That, and the instinct that he must soon feed...those were the only certain facts in the vampire’s mind anymore.

“Is the sun rising soon?” He asked flatly, dispassionate as he gazed up at the sky and felt the hunger churning in his belly. It was outright enraged he should have been turned so close to dawn, while his mistress got a satisfying meal out of it.

“I think so,” she replied, hesitant. He was right, though. He could feel the sun’s fingers already creeping languorously over the horizon. Could already feel a torrent of thoughts rushing in his mistress’s mind, chastising herself for not acting sooner. They could have spared themselves quite a lot of trouble if she’d just bitten him when they were still fleeing from the hunchback. It could have bought them a good hour to get to the village, and dine to their hearts’ content before retiring.

There wasn’t enough time to return to the castle, nor to find a cemetery to ransack it for coffins, which would really take far longer than simply going back anyway. “We could burrow,” Alfred suggested.

“What?” Sarah looked at him with an expression of sheer confusion which must have rivaled what he felt when her fangs had first pricked his neck only moments ago.

“Like rabbits,” he went on, “it should still be thick enough by tomorrow, we’ll be safe...we just dig a bit through the snow, and the ice, perhaps a few layers of earth if we can manage…” He realized how barbaric it sounded once the words were out of his lips, but the thought of nestling beside her in the makeshift grave was not without its perks. He was, after all, still enamoured of her, even if it was only physical now.

“Rabbits…” Sarah rolled the word around on her tongue, savoring it, even as she flinched with the growing sense of doom while the sun continued to approach. Without another moment of hesitation, she dropped in a puff of floating fabric to the ground, scrabbling through the snow and clawing as quickly as she could to push the packed white powder away.

He didn’t need to be told, Alfred was soon at her side, digging just as hastily, his fingers turning blue with the damp cold, though he could not actually feel any pain. The notebook tucked under his jacket would be filled with thoughts and observations the following evening about this, he realized, noting that he still had a somewhat clinical mind...even if it didn’t hold a candle to the ramblings of his former professor.

“Rabbits,” Sarah repeated, meeting Alfred’s gaze when they had finally managed to create a hole just big enough, though it would be a tight fit, as they climbed down into the snow and reached up to pull it about them.

“Rabbits,” he agreed, pulling her close in their shallow grave together.


	2. Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few years have passed, and Sarah decides they should return to the castle. Alfred can feel her slipping away from him. Herbert is more than happy to have guests. The Graf is amused.

They knew the passing of time by the melting and falling of the snow, the swift decay of their clothes, the aging of their prized victims' families; Sarah loved to dine on a man, only to return for his son or brother in the ensuing spring. Alfred, personally, did not enjoy the taste of men. He did not wonder that his jealousy tainted their blood when he was forced to watch her cajole and entrance them, before leaving the leftovers so that he might finish them off.

Though there was a distinct fondness Sarah held for him, which Alfred clung to, it was merely the affection of a girl for a beloved pet. As when they were human, when her greatest desire was to enjoy a languid bath, he often found himself having conversations with her only to lose Sarah's attention when something far more interesting struck her fancy.

He did not know when she grew weary even of these tiny affections; he often pondered this subject on the fortunate mornings they slept in fresh coffins, when the spring soil of every kirkyard was pliant enough to be turned by hand and the crosses covered with enough moss or snow not to leave their eyes watering and their skin throbbing from the sight.

Alfred could no longer love as a living man, or a romantic poet proclaiming tender affections for his beloved's simple touch and delicate smile. He could only love as a monster and a creature to whom time and age were merely words. He wanted Sarah in every respect of the word, but went starved for that need, and the five or so years they traveled the world together as swiftly as they might became a very empty time for him. Alfred yearned for Sarah because he could _never_ have her, and Sarah soon realized she yearned for the village which she had once called home.

So it was that they finally returned, and not long after they'd settled themselves in the tomb of a well-to-do villager several decades dead, they both began to feel a strange pull in their blood, a desperate need in the very place which they used to house their souls. Something told Alfred that the count was summoning the blood of his blood, and this would only be confirmed one night after his suspicions when he stumbled out to the graveyard of a late rising evening to find Sarah wrapped in a victim's tattered shawl, while she sat on the edge of a tombstone and gazed up at the falling snow.

"I want to dance," she whispered simply, smiling in that dreamy way she had, the wistfulness in her voice causing a deep ache in his very being which could not be eased. She longed to dance with the same ferocity in which he longed to hold and be held by his mistress.

"Then dance," he replied simply, stepping up close to her and offering his hand. Sarah looked at it for a moment or two, examining his delicate white fingers and long nails he hadn't trimmed in months. Why should he? She'd never bothered to touch him.

"I want to dance," Sarah repeated, taking his hand and pulling herself to her feet. "I want to dance, Alfred. I want to eat. I want to _bathe._ I am tired of this stumbling about in the wilderness. I'm bored," the accusatory way she said it as Alfred gently spun her into a circle was absolutely infuriating. Had he not, on many occasions, suggest they go to an inn to do those exact things? _She_ was the one who always seemed to shy away from luxuries in favor of lurking in shadows and alleys, taking to the road by foot rather than by cart or carriage.

Sarah continued to chatter while they spun and twisted through the graveyard, ghostly figures in the countryside, a pair who hadn't changed from the very day they both met their deaths.

"We can go to the castle," Alfred suggested, still yet wanting to please her despite his irritation.

"The castle!" Sarah gasped, pulling her hands away and clapping them like a small child, "oh, how marvelous it would be. The count would hardly recognize me, though," her face fell as she looked down at her garments, seemingly taking them in for the first time. "He won't be pleased with me," she added, a note of anger creeping into her voice. "I haven't been properly cared for."

Alfred drew his hands together and pressed them to his lips in an effort to restrain himself, "no, I suppose you haven't taken care of yourself," he replied softly. "He won't care, Sarah." _I don't,_ Alfred added in his mind, for he certainly didn't look much better. There seemed to be little point in retaining their youth if they didn't show it off to its best advantage.

"The ball should be starting any day now," Sarah added, continuing on, ignoring his input as she shuffled through the snow towards the gate, "we will go there. He'll welcome me back with open arms," she laughed, a delicate and flighty sound, "I will bathe, have a new dress, dance, _live…_ " She spoke with such longing, it was as if she'd never wanted the freedom she'd been enjoying so thoroughly in the first place.

He followed her, he listened to her chatter as they trudged towards the castle through the snow, and he... _hoped_...when they arrived...he might go unnoticed. He was, after all, only a servant to Sarah's needs these days. Nothing more. Certainly nothing less, either, he supposed while he touched his neck and let his cold fingers glide over the pinpricks left from the only true kiss Sarah had ever given him.

* * *

There could be nothing more wonderful than a fine collection of silken ribbons, Herbert decided as he admired the outfit he had chosen for the upcoming ball in three days. Dark emerald ribbons, to match the theme for that evening. His father of late had found himself enamored with his chosen prize for the year, an Italian lady's maid stranded by her traveling party when the woman she served came down with an unfortunate illness. The color matched her eyes quite nicely, Herbert supposed, though he had little interest in her.

No, what he wanted was of an entirely different nature. He longed for that pretty young boy who had tried to save the peasant girl from the red masque, five years past. He wanted to sup on those lips, no doubt stained ruby by the meals he should have indulged in by now, if the girl truly was as destined to hunt as father seemed to believe. Herbert wanted to run his hands through those tight curls on the young man's head, and admired the way their pale skins would look together, porcelain against porcelain, ivory against ivory.

Herbert wanted what he thought he would never have, perhaps because he couldn't, and perhaps because it had been denied of him so thoroughly that his desire had not been nearly satisfied.

Then, his thoughts and fevered fantasies of _Alfred_ were interrupted by a dark voice at his bedroom door, which commanded and brooked no argument.

"Herbert, we have guests this evening. Come, help me decide where to put them," the count beckoned.

He turned towards his father, running a hand down his chest as he smoothed out the silk of his favorite tunic, half done-up and proud of his appearance even in this state of dress, "more?" He inquired boredly, "the wondering meals of that peasant girl, father?"

The count eyed him, before slowly smiling, and letting that knowing twinkle spark in his eyes, "oh, _no_. We've both met this pair before. They are badly in need of care, and I should think you would wish to help with that."

Herbert arched an elegantly plucked eyebrow in surprise, "am I a servant, then, to act as that one-armed hunchback?"

The count laughed, a short and clipped echo, rich with menace, "I should think you would be kinder to Koukol. He lost his arm trying to retrieve this pair, after all. Unfortunately, he seems to wish that you aid them instead."

Herbert took in a swift breath of air, "I see." His smile matched the count's, "yes, father. I should very much like to help."

"Good," the count turned away, his cape rustling behind him with the force of his movement, "they both need baths. _Desperately._ I have never smelt such a rot of death on any, not even the sleeping parties in the family crypt."


	3. The Parlor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred regrets their choice to return to the castle, and his doubts are confirmed when he sees Sarah with the count. Herbert's appearance doesn't help matters, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm getting a little too wordy with this story. Just let me know if I need to dial back the purple prose a bit, guys. It's hard not to get carried away with a fanfic based off of a German Rock Opera...based off of a Horror Comedy...based off of a satirical novella…

He stood beside her, fingers entwined together while the fire at their backs warmed their tattered clothing. Were he a braver man, Alfred would gladly step back with her into those licking fingers of heat, a steadfast soldier with his lovely Sarah to keep him company as they melted together into nothing but a heart-shaped piece of molten tin and spangle. It would surely be less painful than this unbearable wait for the count to return.

They had arrived swiftly with the approach of dawn, welcomed by an empty hall, greeted by a pair of dark and knowing eyes. A self-satisfied smile as the Graf took in their appearances with one swift look, before sweeping from the grand room they stood in together, to leave the pair waiting in anticipation of what would unfold. Perhaps he would be merciful to Sarah, for she wasn't to blame for their flight from the castle or the abrupt ending of their festivities. The count had no reason to harm her.

Alfred, on the other hand, had no doubt that something gruesome was in store for him tonight. Perhaps he would be thrown to the howling wolves over the horizon, just before the sun came to claim his ashes. Or worse. The Graf himself may return within the hour to drain every remaining dead drop of blood from his body, while Sarah watched on with curiosity. There was no doubt in his mind, that though she held his hand now and squeezed it for strength, she would easily let him go to protect herself. Sadly, he couldn't even hate her for that.

If he were still human, maybe such a feeling would be within his abilities...but since she had made him...turned him...loved Alfred in such a way, if only for the instant of savoring her first meal...he would happily die again to keep her safe. For Sarah. He would do anything.

"Such a charming pair you make," the Graf returned much as he had left, gliding into the room with nothing to hail his presence but a sudden silencing of the fire behind them. As if the flames themselves were just as reverent of his presence as a cowering peasant in the days he must surely have ruled over their small little 'kingdom'.

"Please, sit. There is no need to worry, my _children_ ," The Graf swept one graceful hand towards a grand sofa that stood upon the large rug in front of them. The way he said that last word, Alfred was sure, must be the mockery of how a priest might address his wayward flock. There was such command in his very demeanor, they could not help but rush to do his bidding. Sarah jerked her hand immediately from Alfred's grasp as they settled into their seats, spines straight and proper, as if the pair were in fact dressed in fineries to rival the Graf's himself, and certainly not the sorry state they were in.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise," another voice intoned, lighter, far more eager than the Graf. It was...Albert averted his eyes from Herbert, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he focused instead on Krolock. He had not anticipated meeting the Graf's son again...which he really should have, considering their current predicament. At the mercy of their hosts, in so very many ways.

"I must admit, father, I am astonished this place isn't abound with flies by now," Herbert went on, elegantly wafting a lace handkerchief about his face, no doubt drenched in perfumes.

The Graf smiled again, gliding closer towards the couch, his steps so smooth, he could have been walking on water, or taking flight with his cape, like the bat Alfred's professor had once been so fond of studying. "It is _good_ to have you home."

If he could have turned to stone right then and there, or disappeared within the worn upholstery of the couch, Alfred would have. The way the Graf regarded Sarah...bore into her...watched, and devoured the very sight...it made him both want to swing his fists out in a poorly-timed jealous rage, or prostrate himself in front of his mistress and beg that she leave with him that instant to return to the outside world she had once been so fond of seeing. It forced him to face the cold hard truth that still, she was never his. Still...she never would be. Not with the way she returned Krolock's piercing stare with one of her own. It was no longer through the innocent, sweet eyes of a girl with simple thoughts. It was the look of a woman in the throes of passion. The sort of look he'd only glimpsed through peepholes of a curious evening as a boy, or just before he supped on the rare meal of a buxom peasant girl in the streets.

"A bath," Herbert spoke up, tearing Alfred's attention away from the pair, who in fact spoke more through their lingering gaze at each other than any words might. "A bath," Herbert continued, "that is what you should both have tonight. Then, perhaps new clothes...I will have water drawn for you both. Immediately."

Alfred avoided meeting Herbert's smile with one of his own. A bath would be nice. He didn't need to even glimpse at Sarah to know how she must feel about the matter. She still adored them, when she could find a hot tub of a cold evening. Often the water always seemed to end up tepid and red before she even got to that point, however, and often the experiences left her in a far worse mood than when she'd begun the night.

The Graf held out his hand to Sarah, and she took it eagerly, drawing to his side as if they were lifelong companions. Destined to be together...two puzzle pieces fitting, one beside the other. Alfred took the opportunity to examine his cracked, snow-dampened shoes. He was sure if he even attempted to look at Krolock, he would do something very foolish.

It wasn't long before two other shoes interrupted his train of thought, polished and buckled, which led to a pair of slim legs, attached to a slender torso, and all the way to a very _eager_ vampire, who looked as if he was very much as enamored of Alfred as Sarah was with the Graf.

"Alfred, let's hurry this up, dear. We can't keep Koukol waiting...he has an awful lot of water to heat up."

Alfred bit back his irritation, his reluctance, and his distaste for the look Herbert was giving him. Offending his hosts right now would certainly be a very big mistake. Instead, he took Herbert's proffered hand with an attempt at a smile.

"Thank you, yes. I should like a bath," he replied quietly, taking yet another opportunity to examine his shoes, before Herbert quickly reached down to his chin to tip it up enough so that their eyes met.

"What makes you so pale? Are you ill?" Herbert inquired, tilting his head to the side, grinning like a cheshire cat.

"I'm fine," Alfred stammered. "Thank you very much."


	4. A Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred bathes, and makes a hesitant plan, but finds he isn't alone for long.

He had never enjoyed a bath so thoroughly as he did tonight, despite the worries and dark thoughts nagging at the back of his mind, little rats tearing at the tender flesh of his psyche. Alfred instead focused on the brush of scalding water on his skin, the thick bubbles foaming up around him as he worked to scrub away years of grime and death from his legs.

Alfred wondered how so much water had been brought up so quickly, when there were no crude pipes to supply it. Only one servant, he thought. A hunchback...and he'd been so sure the wolves had done in with the creature when they'd fled the castle years before. Was he human? More than that? Alfred was certain Sarah had told him of days the hunchback had come to her father's inn, when she hid inside, taking and demanding things. Even once, she'd nearly spoken to the creature. Heard garbled words of what she'd told Alfred was one of multiple informal invitations from the Graf von Krolock to join him.

Setting his sponge aside, Alfred worked up his paltry bar of soap into a lather and scrubbed furiously at his hair, anxious to cleanse himself of every kill he'd ever made, every day he'd ever slept intimately with the earth and insects crawling over his stubborn flesh that as yet refused to submit with the decaying laws of nature death should have imposed on him.

A sudden floating siren song interrupted his bath, drifting through the dimly-lit rooms of the castle, bouncing and echoing against the walls. For a fleeting moment, he let his mind sink into that dulcet tone while his body sank into the bath. For the first time since this had all begun, Alfred realized something. He was _tired._ He could actually relate to all of those web-covered vampires nestled in their graves, almost pondered whether or not the real reason he'd come here tonight with Sarah was to simply join them. After all, clearly he was no longer of any real use to Sarah. He'd served his purpose.

Still. It didn't quite sit well with Alfred. Stepping aside to let the Graf just _take_ the girl he'd fought so hard to save, even if he'd made a general cock-up of the whole mess. Sure, he couldn't fight him. He'd only end up on the wrong end of a stake if he did...but he wasn't going to give up on her, either. Alfred smirked secretly to himself. Perhaps he'd been going about this the wrong way. Perhaps...earning his mistress's favor was a simple matter of modeling himself after Krolock. It shouldn't be too difficult. It just meant...dressing in black? Giving dark speeches? Wearing a cape and gloating to his meals more frequently before he ate them?

That was, after all, pretty much all he'd seen the Graf doing, even in their limited encounters together. There didn't seem to be much more to him. Whereas Alfred...well, Alfred was younger. Far more a man of the world than he imagined a stuffy older monster could be. He'd traveled to Venice, Rome, England, even some parts of Switzerland. More, too.

Alfred would _not_ crawl into the cemetery at the end of their visit. He would rebuild himself. The growing strength of Sarah's singing, louder and more powerful, bolstered his spirits more than anything.

Then, slender fingers corded through his hair, and for one fleeting moment Alfred almost let himself believe it was Sarah, come to tell him she'd already picked him. Unfortunately, logic send that fanciful thought sinking into his bath, and he scrambled forward to escape the clutching grasp of Herbert, hovering above him.

" _You-"_ Alfred almost spat out, managing to hold back his anger just in time, before he ended up saying something he'd regret.

Herbert gave him a long, slow smile, shaking bits of soapy lather from his fingers, "calm down, Alfred. You're young. You haven't likely mastered caring for yourself properly without a looking glass. I merely came to help. You know, it took me decades to part with my manservants, before I tired of their clumsiness. There is no grace, in the living, Alfred." He licked his lips, "no grace at all."

Alfred fumbled for the sponge floating in his bath, quickly pressing it down beneath the surface and dissipating bubbles to cover his dignity, "thank you very much for the offer, but I think I'll be fine." He was astonished to find, dead or not, he was still just as terrified of Herbert as the Graf...except...perhaps just a little more.

"Nonsense," Herbert continued, leaning down to press his hands against the outer rim of the bath, "I'll help you wash your hair. It will be soothing. I've already set aside some lovely clothes in the adjoining room for you to wear, soft creamy-white silk and supple brown leather; an absolute dream. You are my guest, Alfred. Maybe even more…" He looked away, feigning a coy air, and only looking somewhat more predatory in the process.

"Maybe even _more?!_ " Alfred asked, sputtered, squeezed the sponge even tighter.

"Yes. A brother. Maybe even a friend. We could be that, couldn't we, Alfred? Friends?" Herbert looked back at him, smiling. "I promise, I won't do anything to you, my dear. Nothing you don't want."

He couldn't see any way out of this. Not in his current state, which only made Alfred question why he hadn't barricaded the door...not that he was entirely certain it would have done him any good. Sarah's singing had stopped, too, so that the silence between them punctuated by the sounds of splashing water as he shifted in his bath was deafening. "All you want to do is wash my hair, then?" He sighed, keeping the sponge firmly, almost painfully in place.

"My soul to the grave," Herbert replied, placing his hand over his heart and sighing in a rather more dramatic fashion than was necessary.

Alfred's shoulders slumped. Arguing...fighting him would only wind Herbert up, maybe even stir him into a frenzy of some sort. He wasn't sure. The older vampire, in his mind, was unpredictable...in a thoroughly unappealing way. "Fine. But I don't want this to become a habit. I like my privacy," he affirmed, leaning back up against the side of the tub as Herbert happily navigated around it to kneel behind him and set to work on his hair once more.

In a way, it was almost a nice distraction. Welcome or not, once he'd managed to relax enough to force himself to pretend they were Sarah's fingers combing through his hair, working at the bits of old dirt and blood still caked in his scalp, Alfred actually began to enjoy himself. Still, he kept the sponge firmly in place with a death grip throughout the duration. Just in case.

"You know, father always seeks out the young, pretty things. He never could abide when I wanted one," Herbert chattered, breaking Alfred's illusion, but maintaining a pleasant rhythm in his hair nonetheless. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I still much prefer the company of...well...I'm sure I need not say it. Still, once in awhile, I do enjoy a pair of soft thighs of an evening. Really, though, I'd prefer not to seek out my father's leftovers. It's...rather Oedipal, in a manner of speaking. Or perhaps there's a better term. I shouldn't worry about it, though, Alfred. I've no interest in _your_ little red-headed treasure. No. She's not to my taste at all."

Alfred flinched, swearing Herbert's nails almost dug in a little more than necessary at that last remark, "Sarah isn't mine," he affirmed, picking at the fibers of the sponge bitterly. Who was he kidding? He could never re-

"She could be," Herbert remarked, pulling his hands away to lean over the side of the tub and grab a clay pitcher he'd likely brought in with him, dipping it into the tub and filling it with water. A little too close for comfort.

"What do you mean?" Alfred leaned forward to allow Herbert to pour the pitcher over his head, and then dip it again in the water to repeat the process.

"I mean what I said. She could easily be yours, if you worked at it. I could help, if you like," Herbert added, almost disinterested when he'd finally set the pitcher aside and stood up with a linen towel slung over his arm.

"What?" Alfred gaped up at him, watching the older vampire shake the towel out and spread it in front of himself, obliging Alfred by turning his head to the side. His head was reeling so much from the idea, he hardly realized he'd stood up to take the towel and wrap it about his torso, until they were halfway out of the room, little spots of pink water dripping on the stone tile.

"We're friends, aren't we? Do tell me we can be friends, Alfred. I should like nothing else more than that, as I said before," Herbert continued, nodding towards the chamber he'd led the former hunter into. There was a great bed, much like the one he'd slept in beside the professor, with a nice outfit slung over the mattress...surprisingly much in the style of what he'd been accustomed to wearing, though the material was far nicer.

"I'm...I'm not sure about that," Alfred mumbled, standing beside the door. This was as far as they got before he gave Herbert a very expectant stare.

"Well, we can talk about it later on tonight. Perhaps when you are dressed, and have had a chance to settle down a bit. Your coffin should be ready by then…" Herbert smiled again, which somehow didn't seem quite so predatory this time as it had before.

"I'll...think about it," Alfred replied.

"You know, I shouldn't have tried to bite you before," Herbert added, spinning on his heel.

"I'm sorry?"

Herbert paused, reaching back to close the door behind him, but not before issuing one final remark, "you were simply too irresistible. It was the blood...mostly. But now, I do promise you, Alfred...my self-control is impeccable. I've had practice."

Alfred crossed towards the bed, nearly dumbstruck. He couldn't believe it. The conversation with Herbert...it had almost been... _pleasant._ Perhaps he'd consider his offer, after all. He had nothing left to lose.


	5. The Broken Coffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herbert is unapologetically clumsy, while Sarah is half-starved, and Alfred is put-upon by all parties in one way or another.

"Oh no, the lines are simply not clean enough, Koukol," Herbert clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, kneeling down to run his hand over the side of a swiftly assembled pine coffin, "you'll have to make something _much_ stronger. Why...these could fall apart within the passing of the first day!"

The hunchback pulled back and kept his head tilted, just so that Herbert could see the bitter look in his face without meeting his eyes. He was a loyal, if ill-tempered servant. He knew very well what happened when that same temper got the better of him at the wrong moment. The remaining half of his mangled tongue was a _very_ good reminder.

"Herbert, leave Koukol to his work," the Graf intoned behind him, drawing his son's attention. Herbert quickly removed his hand from the side of the shoddy coffin and stood up to face his father with a thin smile.

"Of course, father," Herbert bowed his head, "forgive me."

"You aren't perhaps trying to stall him, hm?" He inquired softly, in a voice that didn't need to be loud to carry across the stretching expanse of the castle. It was a trait Herbert had yet to acquire, though hardly two decades younger than his sire. To a vampire, a difference such as that swiftly became hardly much to measure at all.

"What on earth would give you that idea?" Herbert drew back, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense as Koukol shuffled about behind him, shuffling through tools and piles of scrap wood with frustrated grunts and grumbles. They really should consider taking on an extra servant, soon. Koukol was already fairly ineffective before, the lack of an arm for the past five years had not improved matters. The old letch and his companion in the kitchens could hardly be considered for any task that went beyond cleaning up leftovers. They couldn't keep their grubby paws off of each other.

"Perhaps it was my imagination," The Graf spread his hands, "forgive me, Herbert, I know you would _never_ inconvenience our dear Koukol."

"Of course not, father," Herbert replied, lowering his hand from his chest and flinching when the clatter of a rough hand plane echoed through the chamber. "Well...I suppose I should have kept a better grip on it," Herbert cleared his throat, kicking the hand plane towards the irate hunchback so he could properly finish his task.

His father laughed, rich and long, offering his arm to him, "really, Herbert. Have you nothing better to do? We have guests to look after. They might appreciate having a place to sleep in the next hour or so."

Herbert didn't even bother feigning indignance, shrugging his shoulders, "I had considered that. Surely you could accomodate _one_ of them in your own coffin, should the unthinkable happen-" he would have continued, but that was the moment the coffin he'd been touching decided to fall apart behind him. "You see? Koukol, I _told_ you to reinforce them…"

The hunchback groaned, thumping his remaining hand against one of the fallen pine boards in frustration, and tossing his hand plane to the ground to snatch up a hammer and several nails. There wouldn't be time enough to finish it tonight, of that Herbert was certain.

* * *

He had been waiting for what Alfred could only say must have been the longest hour in human or inhuman history. Future generations would write of this mysterious collection of minutes that had stretched into seeming eternity, while the world stood frozen in place.

"Alfred?" A tumble of brilliant red curls flashed in the doorway to the bedchamber, drawing his attention. He jerked to attention, jumping up from the bed, astonished at the sight. She looked clean, fresh, and far more delicious than she'd looked in years. Oh yes, under those layers of dirt and caked blood, she had remained ever beautiful...but now? He could hardly speak. If she were alive...he would have _devoured_ her.

"I've been looking for you. The Count told me to wait in the parlor once I was dressed, but I simply could _not_ bear to be alone much longer. I've grown so accustomed to company," she went on, "it _was_ nice to see Magda again. She can lace corsets as no other, for I suppose she must. The coin I saw in her palm on occasion surely came from more than one man who enjoyed the sight of her-...Alfred? What is wrong with you?" Sarah drew closer to him, frowning when he didn't even move to greet her, or step aside so that she may have a seat upon the bed so she could continue to chatter in comfort.

"I was surprised," he defended, "you're clean."

Sarah lowered her eyebrows, and the fluttering thoughts in her mind that she let him see, most certainly were _not_ pleasant ones. Sarah rarely let him see into her mind, the intimacy far more than she liked to allow, unless he said something thoughtlessly. Devoted or not, he saw no point in lying to her.

"Sarah, we have both been living like animals for the last half decade," he went on, "you were dirty. We were both dirty. I see nothing wrong with stating it plainly."

"Yes, well, you are right. I am clean, Alfred. I am clean, the grass is green, the sky is blue, the snow is white, and you are an idiot. Did I forget anything?" She placed her hands upon her hips, and he took in the side of her moss green gown as she did so. There was not a color that existed which did not complement her.

"Are you hungry?" He inquired, reluctantly bringing one of his wrists up and examining it thoughtfully.

"Famished!" She replied, rushing forward in a cloud of fluttering skirts, dragging his hand to her lips. It always left him a little wanting, a little more starved, but on the nights she went without feeding...Sarah could be a harridan. His blood wasn't really any more satisfying than a crust of bread and some water, but it was better than going without. He very much doubted they'd be offered anything else tonight by their hosts before dawn.

He flinched, but remained silent as her teeth punctured his skin, splitting it like an axe cleanly cutting into wood. Alfred would never tell Sarah of the sheer ecstasy that drummed in his thin veins beneath the icy pain of her feedings. He supposed he should have, in the beginning, when she'd had to resort to him for food in their more desperate evenings...but he'd been so terrified of losing even that much intimacy, and didn't doubt that if he told her now...she wouldn't hesitate to rip his throat out for keeping it to himself for so long.

It wasn't very long before several things all seemed to happen at once, to make up for the endless hour preceding this two minute span: Alfred very nearly passed out, Sarah drank far more than he was accustomed to, the Graf appeared in the doorway with a thunderously dark expression, the hunchback lumbered behind him dragging scraps of wood and grumbling to himself, while Herbert trailed behind him only to stop beside the count with a gentle laugh.

"Father, I promise...it was not my intention to trip, he was merely in the wa-"

The Count held up his hand to silence his son, and Sarah pulled away from Alfred's wrist, spinning about to face the elegant pair in the doorway, blood still dripping down her chin, and eyes alight with the frenzy of a fresh meal.

"I will tell you this both _once,_ and only once. When I give you an order, I expect it to be followed. Explicitly. When you are hungry, in my castle, you come to me _first._ You will _not_ drink from each other, or any of the others without first obtaining my permission. If this sort of behavior became a habit, there would be numerous corpses of my children littering these grounds. You dine on human blood, and human blood alone while you are my guests. Am I understood?"

Sarah reached up to delicately wipe at her chin, nodding slowly, before giving Alfred one quick accusatory glance. He remained bitterly silent in turn, meeting the count's gaze. He did not miss the subtle smile, the very slight twist of the corner of his lips. Oh, this wasn't about rules, of that Alfred was certain. The Graf knew very well, too, why he'd suffered Sarah's bite without complaint.

"Well," Herbert laughed, high and light, "you certainly don't hesitate to make a mess of yourselves quickly, do you?" His eyes lingered on the spots of blood that had stained the cuff of Alfred's shirt, and he quickly moved to fold it over the healing bite. While he would happily offer his blood to Sarah, if she needed it, he had no intentions of becoming an aperitif for everyone. He didn't doubt the Graf would look the other way if Herbert broke his little rules.

"Herbert, leave. Amuse yourself for the time being while I see to arrangements," the count gestured to his son, who gave little protest but a quick sigh as he spun on his heels and left.

"Unfortunately, seeing as your visit tonight was...quite unexpected...and my servant, alas, is not quite the woodworker he once was," the Graf gave Alfred a pointed look, "until tomorrow, you shall both have to share accommodations with another…" he offered his arm to Sarah, "I am sure it need not be an issue. So, there is no need to discuss it further," he added, that subtle smile no longer so subtle.

Alfred bristled, allowing his fear of the count to govern him over his anger. He had a very good idea exactly whose accommodations he would be sharing. He highly doubted this wasn't planned from the beginning, either.


	6. Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may wonder why these chapters are so short, or why each of them takes so long. It's because I am butter, and spread very thin. That, and I'm trying to lovingly draw out the details...because otherwise, I have a tendency to rush and skimp on imagery.

Lavender powder and dust. The vague musty odor of death he could never escape. A lean form tucked into his side with none of the accustomed soft curves Alfred had known in the first few years of his unlife. He couldn't _believe_ he was expected to sleep like this beside Herbert like the doll of a shamelessly pampered little prince. The count had been of little help; he had reminded them that they were of course still guests and had to accept the accommodations available to them. Somehow he suspected this was all one great joke at his expense.

Then he heard it: feet thumping against the coffin lid above him. Rushed chatter from familiar voices he couldn't quite place, and then the scrape of wood on wood as the lid was shoved aside. His eyes frozen open in the death-like state he was forced to be in from dawn to dusk allowed him to see them, but not speak or move to stop the mirror image of himself gingerly removing Herbert's arm from his torso so that he could gain better access to Alfred's heart. He could hear the professor urging his copy on, feel sharpened wood pressed to his chest…

It was, to say the least, a most unpleasant nightmare for any vampire, and especially because he was forced to experience the entirety of the staking in his mind until blessed darkness finally overcame the day…

He did not awake terrified for his 'life'. He did, however, wonder exactly what that dream meant. Was it the fearful pondering of a restless sleeping mind? Remnants of his human conscience trying to (pointlessly) jog him back to his old self? Or, perhaps there was something else. He couldn't exactly place his finger on it, and were he not anxious to pry Herbert's iron grip from around his shoulder, he might have worried.

Alfred really shouldn't have forgotten about that dream later on in the evening, but he did. It was something he'd certainly regret later.

* * *

Five years scouring every nook and cranny possibly tucked within the barbaric countryside he'd lost his assistant and the girl. Five years of being found time and time again half-buried in snow banks, or trapped on thin icy lakes. Five years of long-suffering looks from the villagers who'd come to know him as their foreign eccentric old man with a bizarre death wish, and a somehow resilient heart even now despite himself.

He could deny it no longer. Well past the spry age of sixty-five, perhaps sixty-eight...Professor Abronsius was getting old. What's more, if these yearly winter disappearances were any sort of indicator, along with the occasional human ice-cicles he was forced to stake before they found their proper burials, he had _not_ in fact rid the world of vampires. If anything, it seemed as if there were actually _more,_ judging by the rather odd letters he was receiving from certain colleagues who seemed to be experiencing their own revelations of the fact he was not insane.

Giving a soft harumph, followed by a louder one, he wiggled his nose and rubbed a cold, patch-gloved finger under his shockingly white moustache. The latest missive he read informed him of one of his greatest fears and suspicions...garlic and garlic flowers did little to aid in the destruction of the damned, and if anything...seemed to add a particularly enjoyable seasoning to the blood for them, as it seemed given the opportunity they would invariably pursue a man who had feasted on a hearty garlic soup over one who'd enjoyed a bowl of fine and somewhat bland porridge.

The professor gave yet another harumph, much more vocal, and far haughtier than either of the first two, right as he prepared his paper and ink pot on the crude tavern table. Reconciliation with Madame Chagal had been quite simple. Well, the fact that he'd 'seen to it' her daughter was sent somewhere far safer and provided for had gone a good distance in securing her reluctant semi-permanent housing of the old man. He supposed he may have stretched the truth a little...but he assured himself time and time again of a guilty evening spent laboring over a pot of boiling water with a soaking towel on his head that he had done the _right_ thing. After all, how could he honestly admit that perhaps...just _perhaps_ she and his assistant had frozen to death or slipped and broken their necks out in the wilds, or gotten eaten by wolves, or simply run off on a fool's errand together? Besides...he was sure he'd eventually find them. Eventually.

"Dummkopf," he mumbled to himself as he drafted his letter to his colleague, haranguing him for such a foolish experiment as tempting a legion of the undead with a garlic-y morsel, rather than immediately dispose of the creature. "Dummkopf," he repeated again, reflecting on his lost assistant and former student. Alred's soul should be grateful he was sacrificing his twilight years to even bother trying to find the boy's body to give him a proper burial. "Dummkopf," he harrumphed one final time. There was a small, very small trace of self-censure in the word now. But the feeling didn't last long.

"Old man," Rebecca called out, slapping a bucket and sponge on the ground beside his table.

The professor pulled away from his work and turned to look up at her with one raised eyebrow.

"You eat, you work," she reminded him, standing with stout legs and pudgy hands firmly on her hips.

"Madame," he reminded her, "I am a professor. I am a doctor. I am a scholar. I am a-"

"You are a lump. You are a leech. You are a fool. You have not paid for board in three years. You eat, you work," she affirmed once more. The look in her eyes promised him an icy bed outside with a snowy blanket to nestle under if he didn't do as he was told.

So, slowly, Professor Abronsius climbed to his shaky and dignified knees, cracking with each movement as he grabbed the handle of the bucket. He was old. Very old. Surely, if he didn't meet his demise at the end of a pair of fangs, he was confident he would at the end of this woman's 'hospitality'.

"Dummkopf," he grumbled to himself while she set to dealing with her other customers, who more often than him would pay their own tabs, and didn't hesitate to make extra messes on the floor for him to scrub.

* * *

Oh, what a wonderful dream. Crushed velvets and lilac curtains, silken skin and a bed of frothy petals that seemed to debate whether or not they wanted to emulate flowers or foamy bubbles in a luxurious bath for two. To Herbert, the dream logic of his delightful sensory overload was magnificent to behold. A million different textures and materials, a million different ways and settings in which he found himself convincing his object of desire to stay a little longer, learn a little bit more about the art of love...or something similar…

But then, he felt Alfred pulling away, trying to crawl off of the bed, or the horse, or out of the bath, or back into the castle and away from the pouring rain...and he was awake in his coffin, releasing his arm from the younger vampire's shoulders so he could watch him practically jettison across the space of the entire crypt to get away from him.

"Alfred?" He asked innocently, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head, "is there anything wrong, liebli-...brother?"

Angrily, Alfred rubbed at his tender shoulder and cast a venomous look at him, "you said you wouldn't try anything! You nearly...you almost-..." He was taking in big breaths of pointless air now, struggling to come up with the right phrase or accusation, but it didn't seem to come.

"I almost what?" Herbert urged, "I do admit, I'm quite the heavy sleeper, but there is so little space in my coffin...you can't honestly expect me to know what I do with my arms when I sleep, can you?" He paused, "I could have done something _much_ worse. The devil knows I have a mind to."

He very well would have been red in the face, were he still alive. But Alfred remained perfect and pale as the day he died, with little else to betray his rage and slightly innocent terror...well, innocent for a vampire, anyway. "I am _never_ sleeping with you again!"

Herbert couldn't hold back the thin-lipped smile that blossomed on his face, "but, Alfred...we haven't even slept together yet." He lowered his arms and placed his hands over the side of his coffin, leaning forward, "father and your little Sarah must have woken ages ago...my how the early hours seem to fly, don't they?" He ignored the sputtering, helpless sounds and nervous gestures of the younger vampire in favor of the sound of his own voice, "I have just the sort of plan to make her more at _ease_ with you tonight, Alfred, if you will but get over your silly little fit you're throwing right now. Really, do you think that sort of behavior is becoming to a young lady?"

"I certainly don't think being bedded by another man is either," Alfred spat back, seeming to have grown a little bit of a backbone since the last time they'd spoken. Well, Herbert would indulge his temper for now. It was understandable, after all, given how he'd woken up...even if, in more ways than one, it had perhaps been the most delightful day Herbert had ever had.

"Well, you needn't worry about that, then. I promised I would be good, and as far as you know...or as far as I know," he added quickly, "I have been. Now, would you care to greet your little Sarah tonight and help her pick out what she'll be wearing to the ball?"

Alfred pulled himself away from the wall, seeming to recover enough of his composure to at least relax that much, "ball? Another one?"

"Oh, yes. Every year. Each one more dreadfully boring than the last...except, of course, for the last one _you_ attended...but I needn't remind you how that turned out, do I?" Herbert chuckled to himself, and how he enjoyed the sound of his own silver laughter filling the air.

"...I don't know anything about dresses," Alfred protested.

"It isn't about the _dress,_ darling. It's about the interest. Perhaps you misunderstand...well, I shall teach you all about this on the way to her quarters. Come along, this is your first lesson. We had better make it a good one, or the rest of them will be a miserable failure…" Herbert climbed to his feet, shaking some of the grave dirt from his toes. It wasn't at all wise to wear good shoes in a coffin, after all. He'd learned that lesson all too well when he was younger even than Alfred.


	7. Dressing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer to write than I'd planned. Well, here it is. Don't worry, story isn't dead.

She was passionate, dusky, voluptuous, enthusiastic...in short, Sarah absolutely despised everything about her. What's more, she couldn't _believe..._ just couldn't _believe_ this...maid...this human was given the pick of all the dresses before her!

"No, not that one!" Sarah snapped, rushing forward just as the woman reached towards a very rich, red dress...possibly even more luxurious than she remembered her own tattered ballgown being when it was fresh and unsullied. She'd had her eye on it the entirety of the night, and she'd be damned a second time if she let it go.

The woman slapped her hand away, letting forth a stream of funny, angry, nonsensical words. It was all very lyrical, but of course Sarah couldn't understand any of it. For a moment, she wondered how firm the Count truly was about that little rule not to eat anyone without his permission...but a chill ran down her spine at the thought of what he might do if he was. Whether she thought he favored her or not, she had no desire to upset him. That glowing anger in his eyes when she'd fed from Alfred had been cowing enough.

In fact, Sarah rather wanted to get on his good side. She'd thought of him an awful lot these past five years, in-between nostalgic thoughts of her humanity for startlingly fleeting moments. She wanted to prove that there _was_ still something about her to capture his interest, even now that the blood in her veins was no longer her own, but the stolen remnants of life from the meals she had taken in the past month or so.

Slumped in her chair, she kept her knees close to her chest while the frothy trails of her skirts draped about her in a halo of creamy white silk. It was unnerving to be here alone with her thoughts and the natterings of indecipherable gibberish spilling about the room from that...woman. No Alfred to cling to her, or dote on every single movement she made, to practically feast on the sight of a curl falling over her ear, or imagine a thousand ways the curve of her neck was more appealing than any meal…

It was tiresome, filtering through his thoughts, whether he was aware she did it or not. Alfred's head was a tiresome mine of melodrama. The Count, at least, had a mind she could not pierce. He was, in short, far more interesting. Even before she had died. Alfred was and always would be practically a boy, and the Graf...oh, he was the very essence of a _man_.

The Italian woman claimed that dress despite Sarah's protests, and whisked from the room with her ill-gotten little treasure, leaving her behind to stare after the _witch._ It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. How on earth was she expected to dazzle at the ball if she couldn't wear red?

Sarah stared at all of the remaining dresses, lined up side by side on a wire the hunchback had fashioned to stretch across the room so they could be shown to their best advantage. She plucked glumly at the skirt of the one she wore. She supposed it was better to have this, or the remaining options, than to wear rags and webs, dusty scraps of mildewed white or black...the things she'd recalled the others wearing at the only ball she'd been to. Compared to them, she knew she'd still be more than sufficiently dazzling. But...she wanted to be the only one…

And she wasn't. She just _wasn't._ Sarah began to wonder if she was just a bauble to be cast aside once the Graf had his fill of her blood, when the door creaked slowly open, and Alfred poked his head into the chamber. Sarah stood up, smoothing out her skirt, "yes? What is it?"

He nodded to her, "I thought you might want some help."

"Help? With what?" She snapped, "I can't drink your blood here, Alfred."

He cringed, easing further into the room and leaving the door open behind him, "no, I meant I thought you might want help picking something to wear."

She gaped at him. It would have been less astonishing if he had told her he was a frog and proceeded to hop about the room eating imaginary flies. "You want to help me pick a _dress?"_

"Well," he glanced back over his shoulder, "I know you'll probably want to look your best. I saw the Italian woman running by with something red, and I knew you _liked_ that color…" He shrugged, "if you want me to leave, I can."

"No, no," she held up a hand, stepping forward, "you can help me. I suppose."

Sarah glanced back towards the dresses, folding her hands primly in front of her waist, "so...which one?"

He was taken aback, "I'm sorry?"

"You said you wanted to help me pick something to wear, so...pick one, Alfred!"

He pursed his lips, walking closer to the dresses and reaching out to run his fingers along the material of a canary yellow nightmare. Sarah wrinkled her nose and shook her head, "it's too...yellow. I want to look like an angel, not spoilt milk."

"Oh, I was thinking about myself," he gingerly removed the dress from its hanging and held it in front of himself, giving a ridiculous twirl, "what do you think? Does it match my eyes?"

Sarah lowered her eyebrows, "what are you going on about?"

He nodded, "yes, of course you're right...I shouldn't wear this at all. Perhaps I'll take it as my partner to the dance," he strode across the room carrying the dress at arm's length, draping one of the sleeves over his shoulder just as he attempted to leap into a parody of a two person quadrille. He only ended up tangling his feet in the material and ripping it as he stumbled to the ground.

She tried to remain stoic, but she couldn't help herself. Sarah began to laugh. _Really_ laugh, for the first time in...ages. "No, Alfred, she's far too graceful for you. How about…" She walked towards the line of dresses and lifted an emerald green one into her arms, admiring the way the actual jewels sewn into the neckline glittered in the candlelight, "this one would look far better. She'd match your coloring," Sarah held the dress out to him.

Alfred slowly untangled his legs from the miserable pile of yellow fabric on the ground and climbed to his feet. Something seemed to change in his face, as if the joke had suddenly gone just as sour as the dress, and he came closer to her, pressing the dress back closer against Sarah's person and smoothing the blouse over her chest, "no. I think this one would suit _you_ better, Sarah."

She blinked back at him several times, having half a mind to give him yet another reminder that she wasn't interested in any sort of ridiculous poetry or love letter he'd probably prepared for her and tucked into his trouser pocket, but before she could, Alfred stepped back and bowed to her.

"I hope I've been of some service. I'll see you later in the evening at supper?"

Her jaw dropped open, and she was at a loss for words. When he stood back up, he didn't even step closer to touch her hair to smooth an imaginary fly-away curl, or stare overly long into her eyes to try and force one of his silly thoughts into her mind. Instead, all Alfred did was smile...and leave the room.

She was dumbfounded, and had long forgotten about the dress by the time the hunchback returned to gather up the rejects and remove the wire from the wall.

* * *

He couldn't believe he'd done that. Though Alfred's fingers had itched to touch her hair, and he wanted to say so much more, he forced himself to follow Herbert's advice. To make her laugh, engage her, and once that was done...leave. It seemed unfair to do so, to treat her like a passing interest, but he pulled it off.

His nerves were still humming from the effort. If any of this silly plan really did work, then...maybe she'd want to dance with _him_ at the ball, maybe she'd want to go further out into the world, to Venice, Paris, every romantic corner where the blood was richer, the life more vibrant.

"Oh my, Alfred, you're turning into quite the apt pupil," a lyrical voice remarked, and he felt delicate fingers dance along the small of his back before falling away as Herbert fell into step beside him, his smile very self-satisfied.

He didn't shy away this time, growing all too used to the unwanted attentions the older vampire seemed desperate to heap on him. Alfred supposed he'd just have to put up with it, and if it never went further than a touch or a suggestive remark, it would be no worse than an overly enthusiastic dance instructor.

"You know, darling, there really is so much more to the game of love making than just a pretty remark or gasping sighs," Herbert advised, "after all...I was peeking around the corner when you left dear Sarah. I should say she was _very_ intrigued by the new Alfred."

"New?" He scoffed, "I'm the same man as I always was. She's just finally beginning to notice me...I will admit, maybe your idea did help it along a little, but…"

Herbert held up a finger, just close enough to Alfred's lips to almost alarm him. "Alfred, it's a little soon to start feeling so smug, isn't it?" He casually drew an arm around the young man's shoulders, leading him down the corridor, " _mystery,_ you know, is one of the most alluring qualities a lover can have...always leave her guessing. Don't be so obvious about that heart you've hemmed into your sleeves. I don't doubt your pining has been so desperate she's actually been able to hear your thoughts," he smiled and looked upwards, "I know I have."

"I'm...what?!" Alfred exclaimed, quickly removing Herbert's arm from his person and stepping back, "what do you mean?"

"' _Oh, I should do anything for you, if you would only look at me a little longer. Those lips, I would kiss them until they were redder than blood, how I would devour every inch of you if I could...Oh...Sarah_!' Really, Alfred. Do try and be less...cliche."

He sputtered, "I...I never thought...never said...you…"

Herbert drew an elegant hand to his mouth to cover a tittering laugh, "no, you didn't _think_ that one, dear. Did you know you talk in your sleep?"


End file.
